The Kids Aren't Alright
by QueenPersephoneofHades
Summary: Scorch Trials movie!verse: Guilt is a terrible, heavy thing; you can't always handle it on your own. Sometimes, a few words from a friend can go a long way to help.


They don't stop for hours.

They push forward, putting distance between themselves and the crumbling husk of a city, get as far as they can from the small ruin they'd left Winston in.

They trudge across the open ground, wind whipping sand into their faces to sting their eyes and clog their throats, making them break into ragged coughing fits until they resort to wrapping fabric around their mouths to keep them as clear of the debris as possible.

They keep going, even when their legs ache, when their feet blister, when the sun has burned every uncovered bit of skin on their necks and backs before moving past its highest point and starting to sink below the opposite horizon.

They try to forget the echo of the gunshot that had rang across the dunes like a thunderclap.

Eventually, though, they do have to stop – much as they loath to admit it, especially now that they've been brutally reminded with their latest loss, they are all still human.

They tried to look for shelter, anything to get out of what remains of the sun's heat and the harsh wind, but this far out from the city there is nothing but a small mound of wood sticking out of the sand that might have been the remains of a boat or something if water still existed here, so they simply drop into the dirt beside the thing and call it good.

Teresa flops to the ground wearily, stretching her legs in front of herself to carefully pry her boots from her feet, pouring sand from them with a grimace twisting her face.

Aris practically collapses, chest heaving rapidly, unused to such a strenuous trek.

Minho crouches, gaze scanning the dunes around them as if to determine an enemy he can actually fight; something he can do something about, instead of a horrible infection he couldn't even touch without risking his life.

Newt seems to fold in on himself, dropping to his knees before sitting hard on the ground, eyes fixed on the middle distance, looking at something none of them can see.

Frypan sits with little decorum, wheezing terribly, his throat raw. He was too thirsty to cry properly with tears – they all are – but he's been making low noises in his throat for hours; there's no question as to who is taking Winston's absence the hardest.

Thomas doesn't wander too far from them, not after what just happened, but he can't stay near them either; can't stay near any of them, can't listen to Frypan's grieving moans, can't handle meeting Teresa's painfully sympathetic eyes, can't risk seeing Minho's stony expression morph into an accusing glare. Can't even imagine seeing Newt's face after all of this, after getting one of his friends – one of his subordinates, his _responsibilities,_ the kids Alby trusted him to _protect_ – killed so horribly, can't imagine what the second-in-command thinks of their newest leader and the shitty job he's done so far of keeping everyone he cares about safe.

So, with clenched fists and shaking legs, he walks a few feet farther than the rest of them before dropping to the ground, crossing his legs and fiddling with his pack, doing his best to ignore Frypan's moans and avoid glancing at any of them lest they call him on his bullshit plan and realize how much of a fuck up he really is, though it is likely already evident to all of them; first Alby, then Chuck, and now Winston.

For a leader, he seems to only have a talent for leading people to their deaths.

It's quiet for a long time, and he can't bring himself to move; he just stares forward, to where they're headed, at the endless stretch of sand and the wavering image of the mountains in the distance, and Teresa's words come back to him: " _It's like they're getting farther away._ "

That's all that ever seems to happen to them; the closer they come to an apparent rescue, to salvation, the further and further away it gets. Just slipping through their fingers, again and again.

It would be annoying if it weren't so damn disheartening. Everywhere they go, it's just another door to be slammed into their face, or worse – a cell meant to trap them and use them for one purpose or another.

Thomas is getting pretty damn sick of being trapped all the time.

He sits and he thinks, watching the light slowly bleed out of the sky in a steady trickle, distantly noticing the rustling and murmur of voices behind him, shifting slightly when a spark ignites and the others get a fire going.

He doesn't turn toward them. They probably wouldn't want to see him right now, and goodness knows he isn't ready to face them yet either.

However, it would seem one of them shares no such sentiment, because moments after the fire starts, a few footsteps trail toward him before a body crouches beside him.

Thomas does his best to hide his wince, because he's not ready yet – not ready to hear any accusations, to take the blame he so thoroughly deserved for damning them all – not ready at all, but when he raises his head to request his privacy back, his jaw clicks shut almost instantly.

 _Newt._

Newt sits beside him, staring up at the darkening sky with clear discomfort, trying not to meet the other's gaze, and there's a terrible burning sensation in Thomas's gut; out of all of them, hearing his faults laid back in front of him from _Newt_ of all people is the most painful way he could think of it to go – even worse than if Minho started snarling at him.

"Newt, I'm-"

"Thomas, you-"

They both come to a very awkward pause when they realize they're speaking over each other.

Thomas swallows hard as Newt's eyes slowly trail down from the sky, still not looking at him even though it's clear he wants to, and even without the expected shouting this is already more difficult than running from Grievers ever had been.

"I'm sorry," Thomas manages to mumble, tightened throat muscles making it come out choked. "Newt, I am _so sorry._ I should be saying that to everyone, but it- I can't-"

"Tommy," Newt interrupted him quickly, voice equally raspy, and this is a terrible time for Thomas's stomach to get butterflies; he'd heard the moniker once before, hadn't really had time to process it with the Cranks closing in, but now is not the time for the odd feelings he often gets when he is around the other boy. Now, he focuses on what Newt is saying:

"Tommy, that was _not_ your fault. None of it. Winston didn't… none of us could've known-"

"Janson said we wouldn't survive the Scorch," Thomas pointed out, turning towards him fully when Newt closed his eyes and shook his head stubbornly. "He told us flat out, and we – _I_ – didn't listen. He was right, we never should have come out here-"

Newt's eyes darted sideways, finally focusing on Thomas narrowly. "You said if we stayed there we'd die."

Thomas shifted, squirming guiltily as he muttered "Not technically…"

"Being put into a permanent coma does not count as 'living', Thomas," Newt snapped, and Thomas flinched at the furious tone. "You said we'd die there, and you were right. Don't start doubting yourself when we've come so far! There's no turning back now!"

Thomas shook his head minutely, blinking lightly to try and avoid the tears pooling there. "Newt, if I hadn't said anything, Winston would still be alive," he whispered hoarsely, helplessly.

The deep, quiet breath Newt took shook the slightest bit. "Tommy, if you hadn't said anything, _none of us_ would be alive. Worse, we wouldn't even be dead! What they were doing to us, we wouldn't… we'd just _exist._ Pointlessly. Until WCKD drained us of everything useful we had. Do you think they'd wake us up once they were done using us? No! They'd throw us into a pit to rot, along with all the others who died in the Maze!"

Thomas's heart stuttered at the pained, careful voicing of the name 'Tommy', but his brain quickly pushed past the familiar rush of strange emotion to latch onto the end of the blonde's speech.

"Ava Paige said she didn't want us to feel any pain! We wouldn't have felt it!" he snapped. He hadn't believed her, hadn't believed Janson would follow such an order, but it had still been said, had still been a possibility-

The sharp prick of needles digging into his skin made him wince in surprise, making a small noise of protest as he tried to tug his hand away from Newt's, the other boys nails piercing so deep they left deep crescent marks in the flesh. He glared at Newt in surprise only to find the boy glaring just as fiercely back.

"Pain is good," Newt desperately hissed, dark eyes darting over his face with an intensity that shook Thomas to the core. "Pain means you're alive! It means you're human! Thomas, we wouldn't have been human there! We'd just be… bodies," his voice broke on the last word, and the vise around Thomas's heart grew ever tighter. "Like you said. We'd be bodies hanging from the ceiling. Nothing else."

Just the thought of the others, his friends – of Aris, Frypan, Teresa, Minho, _Newt_ – all hanging there like ragdolls, only able to breathe through wheezing ventilators and with tubes sucking the life out of them for every drop of that blue liquid that was so important, left unresponsive and dead to the world for the rest of their lives… it made Thomas's heart stop, made his chest cave in, made his lungs crumble and his heart dissolve and his ears ring terribly as a broken litany of _no no god please no not them please they're all I have just don't_ looped through his head-

He didn't realize he was gripping Newt's hand for dear life until the blonde gasped quietly, gritting his teeth at the white knuckled vise threatening to crush his fingers but saying nothing against it; letting the pain continue for Thomas's sake.

Bullshit.

Thomas released his hand only to tangle his fingers in Newt's shirt, pulling him closer so they could look each other fully in the eye for the first time since their escape from WCKD.

The older boy met his laser-like stare with wide eyes, honest and unafraid and the deep, brilliant brown Thomas often dreamed about.

And this boy was so _good_ , so kind and brave and thoughtful and insanely stubborn – more so, perhaps, than even Thomas – he, out of all of them, did not deserve such a fate. None of them did, not steadfast Minho or witty Teresa or confusing Aris or selfless Frypan, and _especially_ not Newt, who had stood by his side for so long through both the Maze and the Scorch with hardly a shadow of a doubt in his mind that Thomas was in the right, even when all evidence pointed toward the contrary.

He – _they_ – didn't deserve the pathetic half-life WCKD would provide for them if they got the chance.

That one thought made Thomas's resolve surge to the forefront, the grief and despair quickly tucked away in the back along with all the other dark things he didn't have the time or willingness to deal with right now.

His grip on the other boy loosened minutely, and he was both unsurprised and incredibly grateful when the blonde didn't pull away from him, just met his gaze evenly with his own burning determination.

"We're not going back there," Thomas breathed, voice like iron and eyes like steel. "We're not going to die out here. We're going to make it. For Winston. For Alby. For Chuck. Hell, even for Gally. We'll make it for them if it's the last thing we do."

Then he smiled the slightest bit, slow and strained and very, very small. "We won't let WCKD win this time. Not with us."

Newt's lips twitched, clearly trying to hide a smile. "Now _that's_ the Tommy I followed out here," he sighed in mock relief, and his face was just close enough that the small puff of air just brushed against Thomas's cheek, and, yep, those inopportune butterflies were back, dammit. "Don't you go second-guessing yourself like that again. I don't think I can handle anymore pep talks like that."

Thomas resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only just. Instead, he managed a slightly bigger, more sincere smile. "Thanks, Newt." _For everything._

Now the smile that lightened the blonde's face was clearly visible. "You're welcome, Tommy." _You can't leave too._

* * *

 **A/N: The one thing I didn't like about this movie is that nobody addressed this. I mean, seriously, if I had inadvertently gotten one of my friends killed I would feel guilty as hell but no one said anything to Thomas. It was weird. I fixed it with a hefty platter of OTP feels on the side. Long story short, I. Have. Feelings. Lots and lots of painful feelings. This movie is evil and I love it. Newtmas for everyone. I will make you like it or I will make you suffer. Or both. Bye.  
~Persephone**


End file.
